


You've Never Danced Like This Before

by kaycares



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:05:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2351072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaycares/pseuds/kaycares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, if this were an episode of <em>Friends</em>, it'd be "The One with the Condom." </p>
<p>Stiles could write a novel longer than <em>Crime & Punishment</em> about how much a 17 year-old virgin thinks about his first time. And he's one hundred percent honest when he says that one hundred percent of those fantasies didn't involve an evil spirit, a mental hospital, or a coyote.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Never Danced Like This Before

There's a list of negatives to being the Sheriff's son that's twice as long as Lydia Martin's Christmas list. The biggest one, of course, is the fact that the Sheriff is never really off duty. Even when he's watching a baseball game on Saturday afternoon or he's falling asleep in the middle of the annual Stilinski Family _Star Wars_ marathon, the static of his scanner is a constant reminder that his job doesn't stop. And with that scanner, nothing gets past him. So he hears about the two teenage boys who are caught next to a blue Jeep wearing only their socks after streaking across the field during halftime at the Homecoming game. And the boy seen lurking outside Beacon Hills High at one in the morning with an aluminum baseball bat. And, a few years before that, the boy reported lurking outside the Martin family home with a pair of binoculars, the boy who was later apprehended when his shoelace became viciously tangled in a bush. 

But there are a few positives. And it never did take Stiles long to figure out the silver lining to being the Sheriff's son: Sometimes, the Sheriff has to work the night shift. 

Which means there's not a soul there to tell Malia she has to go home tonight. And this time, he might actually be prepared. 

The first time - his first time, her first time, _their_ first time - was whatever is the exact opposite of planned. Stiles could write a novel longer than _Crime & Punishment_ about how much a 17 year-old virgin thinks about his first time. And he's one hundred percent honest when he says that one hundred percent of those fantasies didn't involve an evil spirit, a mental hospital, or a coyote. But that's the way it happened, and he's okay with that. 

Okay, so maybe he wasn't so okay with that at first. But at the time, it felt right. 

Okay, so maybe it was more that at the time, he was a 17 year-old virgin, and twice before he had seen Malia well enough to know that those Eichen House issued sweats were doing her a major disservice by hiding all of the gifts God had given her. But, despite the whole nogitsune-hanging-out-in-his-head thing, he had been pretty lonely at the time, and she was the first person besides Scott he had been able to have a real, honest conversation with. She was a moment of complete clarity in a sea of chaos that fall; in fact, she gave him clarity. She had taken a real interest in helping to solve his problems, and he had done the same for her, and when she kissed him on that stained couch in that musty basement, it had somehow made sense. 

So yes, at the time, it felt right. 

And the second time - his second time, her second time, _their_ second time - was just as spontaneous. The thing about having a nogitsune hang out in your head is that when it leaves, everything it displaced just kind of falls wherever the hell it wants to. So his memories were more like a jigsaw puzzle. And for that first week, it was more like a jigsaw puzzle that someone left alone with a toddler who hid half of the pieces. At first, he wasn't sure if that night ever happened, or if it went that far, or if Malia was even there and not just an evil spirit-induced hallucination. So when Malia showed up after he'd been nogitsune-free for only a week and he still had the bruises under his eyes to prove it, he beat around the bush for all of five seconds before he flat-out asked her if she was present in the basement or only his dreams. _Want me to show you?_ she offered in a matter-of-fact way that was so incredibly hot when she confirms this really, really happened. 

And thus, their second time. 

He doesn't regret it - he has one hundred percent _no_ regrets about the time he's spent with Malia - but he got winded walking down the freaking stairs that week. He didn't exactly bring his A game. In fact, he didn't really bring any game. She took the lead, which was awesome - don't get him wrong. She's not afraid to embrace her inner animal and go in for the kill, and her lack of embarrassment or hesitancy to be herself is something he finds he's very attracted to. But he'd like to step up his game for her. 

Tonight seems like a pretty good night to try that. 

Most nights, it's a matter of when - not if - Malia will show up. He doesn't really know what that makes them. He's never been a fan of labels, and Malia really has no idea what they mean, so he hasn't tried to have that conversation. What he does know is that he likes having her so close so much of the time. She doesn't turn him into a tongue-tied idiot like Lydia has for most of his life, but that means he can be himself with Malia. And he couldn't explain it if his life depended on it, but he knows there's some weird connection he has to her now. She snapped him out of that freaky nogitsune-induced bout of dyslexia, and he helped her tap back into her inner coyote. Malia's different - she's _really_ different sometimes - but he is too. For now, they're just... something 

He also never knows how she'll choose to enter Casa de Stilinski. Tonight, he hears her on the stairs before the ringing of the doorbell or even a knock. But this is progress - she's starting to learn that his window is reserved for late-night-avoiding-the-sheriff visits only. 

"Hey. How'd you get in here?" he asks as he pokes his head into the hall.

"The door." She gives him a proud smile - she totally remembered the window lesson. "It was unlocked." This is true, too. He did that on purpose to avoid a second broken lock this week. 

"Remember, we talked about knocking? That way people know you're there and can _let_ you in?" 

"Oh. Right." 

"But, hey. I'm so proud you used the door. _So_ proud." 

Another thing he really _really_ likes about Malia: she just doesn't care about what other people think. She gets frustrated when she doesn't understand what's going on or when she says the wrong thing, but she doesn't care about other people's opinions. He's never seen her wear make up. Tonight, her hair is up in a ponytail, and she's wearing jeans and the lacrosse sweatshirt of his that she left wearing when she couldn't get warm the night before last. But he likes her like this. He's actually found that he's way turned on by her very real appearance. 

He's also way turned on by the way that she kisses him. Which she does now to cut him off and keep him from lecturing her anymore about the door situation. 

Aside from her still developing social-emotional skills, Malia's physical... activity is the biggest reminder to Stiles that she's newly human. It's more of a _pounce_ when she moves in to kiss him, and he's already learned that she likes to use her teeth. _A lot_. Not to mention the fact that this is her defense, or at least one of them. When she doesn't know what to say or do, she tends to throw herself at him. Really, he's not complaining, but there is that voice in the back of his head, reminding him that eventually, he'll have to wean her off of this. It breaks his heart, but there will come a time when she'll have to talk things through instead of slipping her tongue into his mouth. 

Tonight, however, does not have to be that night. 

He pulls her closer and then lets his hands slide under her sweatshirt. Her skin is like ice, her body still not used to its lack of fur, but he loves the way she gasps against his mouth when she feels the heat of his hands. But far too soon, more reluctantly than he's ever done anything in his life, he forces himself to pull his lips away from hers. This may be the way of the animal kingdom, but it still feels weird to him, the way she immediately gets down to business. The craziest part is that it feels like he's doing something wrong to her, but she's always the initiator, which has to mean that she thinks this is all just peachy... Really, he could try to reason through this all night, but the bottom line is that he feels better if he takes it slow. For her. Even if she's the one pushing them full throttle ahead. 

"How'd it go with your tutor?" he asks without pulling his body away from hers. Every afternoon, a teacher comes over to work with her on the classes she's missed so far. The hope is that she'll eventually be able to go to school, but she has a lot of catch-up to do before then. 

"I don't want to talk about it." 

Instinctively, she moves forward again, but he pulls back. He bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing. 

"Today was a math day?" 

"I said I don't want to talk about it." As a show of her determination to avoid talking about said tutoring session, she reaches down, crossing her arms in front of her to take her sweatshirt off over her head (This was a topic of conversation with Scott because, really, is every girl just born knowing how to take off her shirt like this? Because he knows he wasn't the one to teach Malia that.). This girl is a quick study. She's already found his newest weakness - her with less clothing on. Now she's left in only the tiny little tank top she had on underneath. And he knows - _he knows_ \- he should really ask Lydia to teach her about the necessity of a bra, but he is 17 and selfish. 

What can he say? 

He chooses to say nothing at all. At least now, he can say that he tried to have a civilized, human conversation with her before moving into animal territory. And he'll talk to Lydia. He really will. Eventually. 

He mulls it over for another half second, wishing his conscience was more willing to just _stay_ in the backseat in moments like this one. And then he moves on. "We'll talk about it later." His tone tells her that he means it because he _does_ want to have this conversation with her; it's just hard when he's so distracted by the fact that she is so obviously not wearing a bra. She nods so solemnly, he can't help but find her adorable - _then_ she pounces again. 

He's willing to bet that this sudden attack is spurred on by her poor tutoring session. This is something she's good at; math is not. And there's an urgency to the way she kisses him, her hands grasping fistfuls of the back of his t-shirt in a way that really serves no purpose beyond making it that much harder for him to extract himself. She bites down - _hard_ \- on his lower lip, and he makes a noise that sounds more like a whimper than it should. She growls in response and he can feel the sound in his own chest and ho _ly_ shit, who ever said anything about keeping things slow for anyone? 

Blindly, he backs her up towards his bed, and at the same time, he slips his hand back up her shirt, fully intending to reap the benefits of her lack of understanding about things like undergarments. But while this works in like ten out of ten romantic comedies that he's seen, it really just leads to him stepping on her toes. A lot. It seemed so suave and debonair when he was planning out the way he wanted this to go. Now, it just feels clumsy. And after an hour of math, she has no patience. None. _Nada_. 

"Stiles..." she warns in a mumble against his mouth. 

"Just give me a -" But there are her toes. Again. She pulls her mouth away from his with a smack. He sighs as he lets his hands fall to the side. 

" _Stiles_. What are you trying to do?" 

He bites his lip again, hands on his hips as he tries to reason through this. Option #1: He gives it one more go and hopes it works, while also risking her giving up on him completely. Or Option #2: He can give up now, even though that means abandoning Phase One of his well-crafted plan. But now that she's pulled away, he can see the way her nipples are pressed against the front of her tiny little tank, and the committee has voted that it is not worth the risk. 

"The bed," he sighs with a motion of his hand. "I was trying to _get_ you to my bed." 

She waits just one beat before she turns around. For a second, he thinks she might actually pick up his sweatshirt from the floor and be gone, but then with her back to him, the tiny little tank comes off. And then she's laid out there on his bed, all taut, tanned skin and perfect little breasts he already knows fit just right in the palms of his hands. 

"There. Was that so hard?" And he _cannot_ believe that he has the self control to do this, but he stays there. Hands on his hips, eyes very much on her now very naked torso, but not moving any closer. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to find the right words when all he can think is that Phase Two just flew out the window. And of course, her little coyote senses pick up on his anxious indecision. "What now?" 

"It's-uh- It's nothing. I just - " 

" _Stiles_." 

"I wanted to take that off." 

She sits up, those perfectly naked breasts looking even more perfect now that they're right there, practically calling his name. "Oh my god. I'm going to kill you." She's mad now, he can tell. Maybe she's the one with the coyote senses, but he feels like he can smell her frustration the same way she tells him that she can smell his nerves from outside his window. And even though he's very much aware of the fact that he's walking a _very_ thin line - he's walked quite a few thin lines in his life - he thinks it's hot. He thinks it's super freaking hot that she looks like she might really kill him if he doesn't stay on this side of that line. "So what? Do I have to put it back on?" 

"God no. Never ever put it back on." And like that, the tension is broken - for now. Until he does something else stupid. (Note to self: make sure she understands that she does unfortunately have to put it back on before she leaves.) Looking at her, he suddenly feels overdressed, so he pulls off his own t-shirt as he finally makes his way towards the bed.

"Feel better now?" she asks with a smirk that makes him want to whimper a second time. He stops instead, thinks about it for a split second.

"Yeah. I do." On the bed, she snorts, which then leads to laughter, and he's laughing along with her because this might be the first time he's heard her make a joke. But then he's on top of her, and neither of them is laughing because his mouth has found the sweet spot just below her ear, and she's making this sound that's like purring and he thinks that if he doesn't get a hold of himself, Phases Three through 21 are going to all be lost causes, too. Her body is like a little furnace, already hot to the touch as his hand finally finds her breast and she arches her back, an invitation to cup and fondle and love. It never ceases to amaze him that she can go from being so cold to so hot in a matter of minutes, but he's not complaining. She's much more fun to cup and fondle and love when she doesn't share her temperature with an ice cube.

Her nails rake down his back, sending a shiver in that same direction, and then her hand is pressed to his lower abdomen, her fingertips resting just below his waistband. Another thing he finds so attractive about her: she's not shy. Maybe she was timid for those first few moments they were together that very first time, but at times like these, it's hard to separate the animal from the girl. She becomes that animal in his bed, and, God, is he ever grateful for that. She knows what she wants, and she goes for it. But it's when her hand dips lower that he remembers Phase Three of his plan - the only one he still cares about. 

"Hold up," he cautions her as he pulls away, catching the way her eyes have turned that vibrant blue color. Once again, he tries to keep his eyes on her while his left hand rummages blindly through the drawer in his nightstand, but those goddamn actors make this look way easier than it actually is. When he still can't find it, he looks away just long enough to find the box of condoms that went unopened the last time, retrieve one, and drop it down on the bed where he _promises_ it won't be forgotten this time. The past two times, he realized his mistake only afterwards, and if the third time is really the charm, he _cannot_ make that mistake again. He moves back in, but she's the one who's distracted now. 

"What's that?" she asks as she lifts her head up just enough to try to see what he set down. 

"Condom," he replies shortly, catching her mouth in a kiss when her head bobs back up. But then her hand is against his chest, more forceful this time, and he has to stop. 

"What's it for?" 

"Are you serious?" She nods, and she's lucky she's so freaking cute. "We'll talk about it later?" 

"Why can't you just tell me?" 

"Because it's not important." 

"Then why do you have it?" 

"Because... I do." 

"Why can't you just tell me?" 

Her eyes aren't blue anymore, and he can tell that she's frustrated. Not frustrated in the probably-wants-to-claw-off-his-face-if-he-pushes-her-anymore kind of way she was just a few minutes ago, but in the middle-of-math-tutoring-session kind of way. She knows that she's missing something here, and he owes her an explanation. And wouldn't you know it, his conscience has left the backseat again. 

Except that this is one of those moments he's not prepared for. Like when she wants to know why they do _not_ under any circumstances tell his dad what they were doing behind his closed door. Of course, she doesn't know what it is. When Stiles was taking Health as a freshman, she was probably hanging out with Wiley or making a meal out of Bambi. But he wishes this wasn't his job. He _so_ wishes this wasn't his job. 

With a sigh, he sinks back onto the bed, sitting down and trying to ignore the fact that all he wants to do is continue to cup and fondle and love. She follows suit and sits up, but really, that just makes it a hundred times worse. "We need it so we're... safe." Blank stare. Of course, she doesn't understand that either. Thinking on his feet, he tries to put it into terms she'll understand. "We don't need any pups right now." 

"Right, because it's not even mating season." 

And he's back to opening and closing his mouth again without knowing what to say. Because first and foremost, he didn't know mating season was even a _thing_. And second of all, he doesn't care when it is, he is so not mating with anyone. At least not for the next thirty years, give or take a decade. He places a hand on her bare shoulder, trying to think of anything but how it would feel to move that hand to other bare parts of her. "Okay, first of all, there is no mating season in high school. Second of all, we use this." He picks the condom back up for emphasis. "So that there are no babies for a long, _long_ time." 

He feels like he can see the wheels turning in her pretty little head, so he tries to focus on that instead of looking back down at her pretty little breasts. "Does this mean I won't have to go for any more of those tests with Lydia?" 

There's a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach, and he's not sure which girl he feels worse for. Everything at Eichen House was kind of chaos in his mind, and then afterwards - that was real chaos. But eventually, he realized his mistake, and Lydia's the only girl he trusts. So he might have asked her to take Malia with her so he could have peace of mind that there were no pups in his immediate future. It's on the tip of his tongue to remind her that it was _only one time_. But he'd rather just get back to the main attraction here. 

"Right. Silver lining, see?" He's about ready to pounce _her_ when she speaks again. 

"Well, good. As long as I don't have to go anywhere with Lydia." 

"Hey, she's a friend." 

"She's _slow_." 

"No, she's human." Inwardly groaning, he rubs a hand over his eyes. Because a mental hospital with a side of evil spirit puts his game to shame tonight. "I don't want to talk about Lydia right now. I don't want to _think_ about Lydia right now." He sighs, wallowing in the defeat. Rest of the World: 3. Stiles: 0. "I just wanted tonight to be better." 

Her eyebrows furrow together, and she looks adorable enough to almost lift his fallen spirits. "Better than what?" 

"Than the last times. Better than when I was half dead or half evil." And it's like those wheels click into place. Like he can actually see it happen. She moves to her knees, and he swallows hard because even if he is admitting defeat, he's not about to let this be a loss when she's already half-naked. And now that she's on her knees, it's way harder to keep watching her face. 

"Stiles, this is better." 

Now it's his turn to be shocked. "It is?" 

"Yes. No - I mean, being _with you_ is better. It's the only time I feel like myself." 

"Really?" 

Her eyes are back to blue again, and _finally_ , he's done something right. He hasn't figured it out just yet, but soon, he'll learn that her sex drive is more than capable of keeping up with his own. That stopping a conversation mid-sexing is just as hard for her. Because she doesn't filter herself. She gives in to her desires. She embraces her inner coyote and holds nothing back. She's amazing, and he has no idea how he got so lucky.

Her palms are pressed to his cheeks when she kisses him again then, responding with her body instead of words in perfect Malia fashion. Maybe responding a little too emphatically when she comes the closest to literally pouncing in the time he's known her and succeeds in knocking him back against the bed. There's something feral in her smile when she looks down at him, and his heart races, feeling like saying she's going in for the kill might be the most accurate description he's ever given in his life (Note to self: Tell Scott about this. How can he not tell Scott about this?) And after fail after fail on his part tonight, he lets her take over instead. Because this is the closest to still being an animal he can give her, and he never wants her to stop embracing this side that makes her so... her. She bites his shoulder, his neck, his ear. She traces his jaw with her tongue and - he has to admit - it feels weird, but he also can't believe how sexy it is. Her hand dips back below his waistband, and he makes an unintelligible noise he should probably be embarassed about. 

When she goes to finish undressing, he stops her, taking over. "I get to do this part," he tells her, watching her smile grow as she consents, laying back down so he can slide the rest of her clothes off those incredibly long legs. His head swims as he watches her there, spread out on his bed, all taut, tanned skin and perky little breasts, and he wonders if it isn't moments like this that leave him with nightmares still now. Like in the middle of a nogitsune-induced haze, this is only a dream, too perfect to really be real. But if this is a consequence of the nogitsune, he'd rather stay asleep forever. 

As he moves back up her body, he also moves a hand back up her thigh, parting her legs so he can feel the heat radiating from her. She arches her back when he teases her, coming close without actually touching her. She growls, low in the back of her throat, and he hears himself groan in response, ready to skip about ten steps ahead. But a part of him is still determined to make this better. Better than what, he really doesn't know. Just better. Somehow. So he teases her until she grows frustrated enough to grab his wrist hard enough to leave a bruise, moving his hand to exactly where she wants it. 

Another thing he really, _really_ likes about Malia: He was her first. And she was his. And he was her second. And she was his. And as mortified as he'd be to ever admit it out loud, they're kind of figuring out this whole sex thing together. So when something doesn't feel right (occasionally her use of teeth), it's okay to say something. And when something feels _really_ good, it's okay to go for it. So she goes for it. 

He draws circles inside her as she rocks her hips, her breath a series of heated gasps against his cheek as he kisses her neck. She purrs and growls and grows almost frantic and frenzied in her hip-rocking trance. This would be the point when he would pull back to put a finger to his lips on most nights, but the night shift is a beautiful thing. So he lets her revel in these noises that make sense to him on some level, even if they aren't the words she still struggles with occasionally. He's never done this before, used only his hand like this, but he wants to do this for her right up to the minute when her hand wraps around his wrist again, tight enough to keep him from moving anymore. 

"Stop," she gasps, and he pulls back instinctively, thinking he did something wrong. But her eyes are that dark, dark blue, and there's an unspoken need written across her face. There will be plenty of opportunities to try using just his hand in the future. Tonight doesn't have to be that night. 

"Stopping," he says, equally as breathless and now frantically trying to remove the rest of his own clothing. "I am _so_ stopping." 

He remembers the condom this time, as promised, and he's very much aware of her eyes on him the entire time he fumbles with it. Hell, her eyes on him is probably the reason why he fumbles the way he does. But eventually, he succeeds, and she's impatient, and there's an awkward moment or two where they're both trying to take control and then give it up and then take it again. But then she's surrounding him, and with a shuddering breath, he finally turns his mind off. 

Later, she'll tell him what it feels like, why sex is so much easier than math. Because there's this part of her brain that just _knows_ what to do, the same way she always knew what to do when she was still in coyote form 24/7. And when he tells her that that's how it feels for him too, she'll get so excited, she'll want to jump his bones again. But that's how it is. When he's inside of her, he just knows somehow. And it's nice to have that in common with her. But then again, it's _really_ nice to just be inside her. 

He rocks against her, bracing himself on his elbows above her. And he's willing to bet that those are her real, full-on claws digging into his shoulders and leaving marks that will be red and raw in the morning. But pain doesn't register. Her growl does instead, and the racing of his own heart, and the way it feels like she pulls him in, making it harder for him to rock back each time. When she's close, he can feel her shaking, and she grows almost frantic, grinding against him. He tries to help her by moving his hand back between their bodies, feeling the way she seems to flatten her hips against him and tighten the grip her thighs and knees have on his body at the same time. She nips at his shoulder, she whines, and when she finally comes (he's just a few seconds behind her), she howls. 

And _that_ is why it is best to engage in said activity when the rest of the house is empty. 

Afterwards, he lays on his back beside her, feeling winded, but not quite as winded as last time. So maybe this wasn't his A game, but it was a very strong B-C game, he has to admit. And she seems pretty pleased when she raises herself up on one arm to look over at him, her hair starting to escape that ponytail. He reaches over to tuck some of it behind her ear, and she nips playfully at his thumb. And God, how is she even real? 

She rolls over so her chin rests on his chest, big brown doe eyes staring up at him. "We should do this more." Her tone is matter-of-fact, no humor, no flirtation. She is one hundred percent serious, and he almost feels like he could cry. He doesn't know what he did to deserve this, but apparently, he's a much better person than he thought. 

He cups her cheek in his hand, unable to stop the giddy laughter that reverberates in his chest just under her chin. "We will do so much of this. I promise." 

"Good." 

"So," he prompts when she falls quiet again and he can't read her emotions on her face. "About that math session..." 

He barely gets the words out before she's pushing herself off his chest, her mouth attacking his own. He was too defenseless to ever even try to stop it from happening. 

He'll talk to her about it. He really will. Eventually.


End file.
